Page 39 of Tremaine's True Love
Some cloud in Lady Nita’s gaze cleared, and she turned a sunny smile on Tremaine. An hour ago, he would have described the scarf he’d lent her as blue lamb’s wool. Now, his scarf was the same blue as Lady Nita Haddonfield’s eyes, halfway between a Scottish summer sky and periwinkle, with a beguiling hint of lilac.
Those eyes narrowed, and her smile disappeared. “That is Dr. Harold Horton,” she said, glowering at an ungainly rider on an elegant gray trit-trotting around the far side of the green. “I might as well tell you, I do not hate Dr. Horton, though he has cause to hate me.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Patience Goodenough, a gentle Quaker lady, had cursed like a drover when delivering her firstborn.
Daryl Bletching had cried and begged Nita to try to save his hand when Dr. Horton had sent the surgeon to fetch a saw.
Old Mr. Clackengeld claimed he saw the devil when drunk and swore Nita to secrecy, lest the parson catch wind of such wickedness.
Winnifred Hess believed the angel of death had sat upon her chest counting her chicken pox.
The ill and the injured inflicted their confidences on Nita when she’d far rather they did not.
By contrast, shecravedTremaine St. Michael’s confidences, even as she was puzzled that he’d offer them from atop his horse. Worse, she wanted to share her innermost thoughts with him, which might explain her remark about Horrible Horton.
“The physician looks like Father Christmas out of his seasonal robes,” Mr. St. Michael said. “He hates you?”
“Not quite,” Nita replied, adjusting a scarf that bore the scent of the faraway Highlands. “I’m not worthy of his hatred. I merit his condescension, his amusement even. Shall we go inside?”
Dr. Horton gossiped, and if he saw Nita escorted by a strange fellow without benefit of a groom or a sibling, he would surely mention it over a consultation with the vicar regarding his gout.
“I’m famished,” Mr. St. Michael said. “Even so, I’d rather not let the horses stand for half the day.”
While Nita was loath to linger in the village at all if Dr. Horton was about. “We’ll be quick.”
Mr. St. Michael tucked her hand onto his arm, even to travel the short distance to the door of the Queen’s Harebell.
“You don’t want to pay a call on the vicar, my lady? I’d assumed you had charitable tasks to assign him.”
The vicar likely hated Nita most of all. He frequently preached that God alone—abetted by Dr. Horton—should determine who succumbed to illness and who thrived. The pious among the flock were to meekly endure ill health as a sign of God’s disfavor and pray for God’s mercy.
“Perhaps we’ll call on Vicar another day,” Nita said.
Mr. St. Michael’s pace suggested he was a stranger to hurry, or maybe the cold didn’t affect him, their progress across the street was that leisurely. He studied the shop fronts, the bleak village green, the ravens huddled in the barren oak, the ruts frozen into the street.
While Nita’s heart sank.
“Lady Nita!” Dr. Horton called, clambering off his gray. “Why, it is you, but I don’t believe I know this gentleman. A female of your delicate constitution ought not to be out in such weather, if you’ll take the word of an old physician. How does your family go on, my lady, and will you introduce me to your friend?”
Dr. Horton was friendly, Edward had been gracious, and Nita was abruptly exhausted.
“Mr. St. Michael, may I make known to you Dr. Horton, our local physician and a family friend. Dr. Horton, Mr. Tremaine St. Michael, a guest of the earl’s and connection through my brother Beckman.”
Nita had lied. Dr. Horton was no friend to her family. Even Nicholas had little use for a physician who gossiped. Dr. Horton did look like Father Christmas, though, all combed white beard, friendly blue eyes, and prosperous country gentleman’s attire.
“Dr. Horton.” Mr. St. Michael bowed, though he outranked Horton. “Lady Nita and I were making a quick stop for sustenance.”
“Then you must join me,” Dr. Horton said. “Winter ale fortifies the blood, I always say. Do I detect a bit of the North in your accent, sir?”
Nita let the small talk wash around her, content to be ignored as her joy in the day ebbed. Perhaps she should throw rocks at the oaks on the green or find some saplings to tear down.
The Harebell’s kitchen was serving cottage pie and winter ale along with a plate of cinnamon biscuits, though Nita had little appetite. Dr. Horton chattered on about the approaching assembly being a dare to the gods of weather, though it did a man a power of good to see all the local ladies attired in their finest.
“You’re not eating much, Lady Nita,” Mr. St. Michael remarked.
Dr. Horton patted her hand, and because they were at table, nobody wore gloves.
